I have been feeling rather sad lately, and for some time, I couldn’t quite point to what it was. I could feel it in my body, but until my therapy session, I wasn’t willing to be curious about it just yet not wanting to disturb the feeling of happiness that was also present. As we explored the tightness in my chest, a ball in my throat, an overwhelming cold and as the time edged closer to the end of our session, I reluctantly said softly, “I think I’m sad about what I’m having to give up to live this life.” My therapist replied, “Giving up your freedom?” I instantly disagreed and went around in circles, eventually returning to freedom, one of my core values. I was not too fond of giving it up, but I was also entering a different phase of my life. I could feel it. In fact, I had been feeling it for a while. A phase of rooting, relationship building and rewilding myself back into the land.
About two years ago, I was doing a short hike up Queen Elizabeth Park at six a.m with two dear friends to watch the sunrise, read poems and prayers about the earth and drink hot cacao nestled at the foot of a tree on the top of the hill. It had only been a few months since I had moved to the area. On the walk up, I listened to one of my friends talk about her daughter, about the importance of who was helping raise her and how she wanted her daughter to be raised. I can probably tell you precisely what tiny patch of frost-covered grass I was standing on when that sentence was spoken because, in that very instance, a vow was made and spoken aloud, “I’ve never thought about it until now, but when I have my kids, I want to raise them here too, and I want them to be raised by you.”
In a way, a spell was spoken, and something woven into the future, tethering itself back to the present. It was, in fact, the primary goal of going into the underworld journey that I did in Colombia. I knew that I wanted children, and I knew that I didn’t want them to inherit anything negative that I had in my power to remove. When I landed back after that trip, as you know, I fell ill and couldn’t go anywhere. It became glaringly apparent that had I have been well, I would have gone to tend to my wounds by hopping my way across countries on my own. And yet I find myself the most rooted I have ever been, living in a house with the community tender and village elder, some would say. The house I knew would keep me safe and ground my feet back into the earth.
But I come from a long line of travellers. I knew that I needed to come down from the skies. I needed to let go of a possible life and to quieten this inner urge to keep my inherited nomadic-ness alive. I have travelled since I was a kid. My mother, instead of presents, would gift us trips abroad. My grandmother on my mother’s side constantly had her luggage ready, so I heard. Not to mention my father’s side and the inherent nomad life of the Berbers in Morocco. The airport, as I affectionately claimed to my therapist, “is my second home.” While travelling had served me well to expand my worldview, learn about cultures, increase my emotional intelligence, and practice languages, I didn’t realise what I was losing due to what I was rejecting.
Because to be rooted would really mean to belong. Not just for a visit or a day but to belong to the autumn golden hour in the woods down the road, to belong to Frida and Lenny, my fluffy living companions, to belong to my holy sisters in their time of grief, to belong to the cauldron and the cows where we swim, to belong to the woodland community and unseen beings, to belong to the stones of Hayling Island, to belong to the ritual of sage and harvested squash risotto, to belong to the terracotta clay I’m wedging and the baby oyster mushrooms I’m excitedly growing. All of which need time, attention, care. And as a person who has spent their entire life not belonging, with no rootedness or safe sense of home, what a mildly petrifying ask to truly belong.
And at that edge, at that threshold, is where my grief meets my joy. A grief for all the beautiful things that almost passed me by but mostly for what I didn’t have. A home where my nervous system felt safe, a human basket that I trusted would catch me and a land that had weaved its way into my heart four years ago. So, when I was offered a full-time job a few weeks back that would be fully remote, where I could finally live anywhere, I wanted to in the world, I chose this home. This choice I've come to realise as I write, is a radical act of love and I can grieve the nomadic life I have let go of and still find utter joy in the life I'm living.
As my therapy session ended, my therapist asked, "How do you feel now?" "My body feels warm", I replied.
With love and magic,
#AuthenticAlex
And with that said, I have a new offering I have been cooking up with my friends for a weekend immersion in February 2024.
Come and stay at a beautiful cottage in the South Downs National Park, for a magical immersive experience, accompanied by three witchy women who have been unravelled and courted by the wild. If you feel called to explore myth telling, story weaving, crafting ceremony and ritual.
If you’re longing to be rooted and claimed by place and to deepen your relationship with the more than human and unseen world.
We are laying a place at our table for you.
Our weekend will include: Beautiful home grown, foraged food and collective cooking. Poetry, song, storytelling, and dance. Beauty making, ceremony and ritual. Wild swimming and crafting a handmade life. Remembering the magic
Have you heard the whispers of your spirit longing for more nourishment?
Have you been dreaming of being barefooted and to feel the earth between your toes?
Have you been dancing at the threshold of intuition, magic, and mystery?
Are you ready to court the wild edge?
If so, reach out to me here to find out more: alex@authenticalex.com
A beautiful reflection on belong to place, I love it 🩵